


Weeds

by badgerpride89



Series: Fruit of the Vine [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Role Reversal, it's 1862 what else are you expecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-26 13:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20742695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgerpride89/pseuds/badgerpride89
Summary: It's 1862 and the angel Jophiel has been thinking. He and the demon Ziminiar have the Arrangement. Their respective sides aren't going to be happy when they find out. So why not a weapons trade? Holy water for hell fire.What's the worst that could happen?





	Weeds

Jophiel twists the telegram reply in his hands, straining and wrinkling it in his anxiety. He searches for Ziminiar amid the glowing sunset, tenses further when he spots the demon. They haven’t seen each other in decades, not since Ziminiar’s superiors paid several visits after Jophiel’s encounter with his own bosses. Communication by letter and telegram is all well and good, and the angel thanks human ingenuity each time he sends one off, but Jophiel has missed the demon's presence fiercely. Ziminar stops a foot or so away, just under the ivy-covered trellises. He looks decent, Jophiel thinks, the knot in his chest easing slightly. Ziminiar has always been one to blend with the working crowds and today is no exception; he looks like a rather seedy coachman, all told, to Jophiel's gentleman on the rise. The demon pulls a small black book from his ratty wool coat, pretends to read, and waits for Jophiel to speak.

The angel breathes deeply and says in rush, “Look, I've been thinking and it's...well, you and me, neither side's gonna be thrilled when they learn about the Arrangement and I thought some insurance was in order- we've each got something the other can use…”

He trails off as he pulls a large flask from his inner coat pocket. Though the flask itself is a simple one, brass and copper and free of engravings, its contents radiate holy energy. Ziminiar's eyes widen. He stares at it for a long, _long_ moment. Jophiel twitches under that too assessing look, his impatience growing each second Ziminiar refuses to act. The angel had thought it would all be so simple, that Ziminiar might applaud his cleverness or tease him over his sentimentality or something. That he would have the good sense the Almighty gave a gerbil and just trade hellfire for the holy water. It's an equitable exchange, exactly the kind Ziminiar prefers between them, so why in the world is he so reluctant to take it?

Ziminiar wrenches his gaze away from the flask, sighs, and shakes his head. “I can't, Jophiel,” he finally whispers, “I refuse.”

“Ngk?” Jophiel stammers in confusion. This is not going according to plan. “What? Why?”

“I assume you want mine for yours,” Ziminiar says lowly.

Jophiel feeds him a look. “And?”

“There you are, then.”

“That makes no damn sense.”

“Because you'd use it,” Ziminiar clarifies. Jophiel's starting to wish he would just shut his mouth. “You wouldn't be able to resist. I cannot, no, I will not be party to your Fall or reckless charge into suicide, I refuse.”

“It’s insurance, not a weapon,” he says hotly. How is this spiraling so far out of control?

“I know you. It would burn a hole in your pocket,” Ziminiar replies almost gently, “You would start carrying it everywhere, wondering if today was the day you'd be forced to use it. Then you would start looking for an excuse. With everything they say or do, the urge to show them you are more than they realize would grow. I refuse to create such temptation for you. I will not, not for all the holy water in creation.”

Humiliation burns Jophiel's ears pink. He'll figure out just how insulted he should be later. He shoves the flask at Ziminiar, because he irrationally wants to prove the demon wrong and because this is about more than just his fucking feelings. “Fine, you don't fucking trust me, thanks for that. But when your lot comes for you-”

“I cannot win if they come for me, Jophiel!” Ziminiar snarls, swatting the hand with the flask away as if it might bite him, “Not with an ocean's worth of holy water. One demon against millions, it’s impossible.”

Jophiel bares his teeth, quivering with anger and fear. “It would buy you time-”

Ziminiar steps deep into Jophiel’s space, jaw clenching and offense lining each curve.

“Let me explain something to you,” he hisses in a hard tone which brooks no argument, “I survive by being too insignificant to bother with and when that fails, my information and explanations keep me alive. I can explain our meetings. I can even write off assisting Michael as feeding disinformation to the enemy. I _cannot_ justify possession of an enemy weapon which only destroys demons.”

Jophiel’s brain stutters to a grinding halt. He just- and Michael- and they- No, no, no no no, he wasn't supposed to do _that-_

“That’s what you did,” he says hoarsely, each strangled syllable begging for contradiction, “You rat out your fellow demons to Michael and she lets me stay.”

Ziminiar blinks, pauses, then nods, ducking his head. “Really now, my dear, what did you expect me to do?” he asks, staring intently at the ivy.

Not this, that's for fucking sure.

“How’d you convince her?” he snaps, water and fire forgotten amidst this revelation.

Ziminiar grimaces and swallows. “I know what they think of you,” he says slowly, like each word is sandpaper on his tongue, “I simply...implied that you increase my standing in Hell.”

Jophiel’s stomach churns as a cold sweat shoots through his entire body. He staggers back like he's been hit. The flask clatters to the ground. The world around him dims as an image of Michael and Ziminiar grows in his inner eye. Ziminiar talking his way through Michael’s defenses, her mighty sword at Ziminiar's throat, the other demons figuring him out, the noose tightening around them both with Jophiel in the dark and unable to help-

Jophiel laughs, low and desperate as nameless hurt after nameless hurt bloom in his chest and head. That he’s worth so little to his superiors it was that easy for Ziminiar to convince them to leave Jophiel be. That the Earth and humanity are so worthless they’re willing to keep a _failure_ down here just to get a leg up on the competition. That Ziminiar knows all of this and so easily exploited it to their (his?) advantage, that he thinks Jophiel would be _okay _with all of this, that he didn't think to _tell _Jophiel anything, that he made this choice _for_ Jophiel, that in spite of his shenanigans he’s refusing them both the weapons which could save them, that he didn’t tell Jophiel how much danger he’s courting just to soothe one damn angel who didn’t have the sense to Fall when he had a chance-

“How dare you," he snarls. “How fucking dare you. Fuck you, Zima,” he grinds out as he spins on his heels. His cheeks are wet.

“Jophiel-” Ziminiar wretchedly says as he takes a step towards the angel.

“I don't need you,” Jophiel spits as he storms into the darkness. He doesn't. He can't, not when it comes to _this._ “Leave me alone!”

The next day, the completely full flask appear on his shop stoop.

Jophiel hides within for what feels like a century.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! Please leave any comment you like, from extra kudos to a favorite line. I like seeing what other people have to say about my work. I really appreciate it.


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